


Scabrous

by lostsleeper (orionCipher)



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: OFF Spoilers, People Die., Some are old Kink Meme fills I never posted, Sometimes the Player's a Girl, These are unconscionably short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-02 20:50:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4073428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orionCipher/pseuds/lostsleeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Off Drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loop

"How many times have I been here?" Her fingers are _delicious_ behind his ears, and he all but purrs beneath them, "I mean..."  
"Seventeen? Or eightee- Oh! Right... _there_."

The lapping plastic waves are almost soothing, are deceptively peaceful.

"How many more times will I be here?" She's drifted down to his throat, scrubbing blunt nails tenderly against the soft flesh. He leans into tilting his head to and fro, guiding her from spot to spot.  
"Who knows," he's putty beneath her ministrations when he airily continues, "but why would you want to leave?"

He feels her hand twitch, thick fingers skip a beat, and then she's right back where she left off.  
Her skirt's wrinkled, matted in great swaths stained a nearly black red, and if there is a beast behind her, mauled beyond recognition, she pays it no mind.  
There is only a cat named Pablo and a Player in Zone 0.

"Who knows," she mutters, and stares back into the alabaster sea.


	2. I know I am but what are You?

"Traitor! _Traitor!_ I _trusted_ you! I _killed_ for you, I- oh god... So much blood... My hands are... Oh god.."  
They're sobbing, knees shaking, collapsing to the ground. The sickly laugh bubbles past your jagged maw, brutally reverberating in the spacious room.  
"Pathetic little thing; how else would one purify the world," you smile mirthfully as your clawed hand hits the lever, "other than ridding it of all the filth?"  


They shudder as you pull.


	3. Too Far

The bat hits flesh with a sickening crunch.  
The wrong flesh.

"Don't you fucking dare Batter!"  
Your Players eyes are unfocused, blood - such bright, bright red blood - streaming from their ears in a never-ending current.

"I was wrong to let you kill your wife, but this stops here!"

"Step away Player."

"NO! You've gone too far, strayed too far from the path - I won't allow this!"  
The wood creaks under your grip. "Step. Away."

"EPSILON!"

The Abstract Tragedy hurts far less than her betrayal.  
"You've been warned Batter - stay back."  
You almost reach Hugo, only to be poisoned by Alpha.  
She cries when you ensnare her neck and heft her clear of your 'son.'

The stance comes naturally, feet sliding apart, knees bending just so, arms ebbing before swinging hard-  
-shattering your players shoulder

"Leave him...alone."

Such a strong player, to not so much as scream.  
You carelessly crumple a shin beneath a cleat, grinding deep.  
So strong now, barely even a whimper.  
But Omega is still faithful and doesn't hesitate to ram into her, forcefully edging her out of the room.

Your bat hits it's mark this time, plump bruises instantly visible.  
Again.  
Again.  
Aga-  
Alpha has Omega pinned and Epsilon's defending your prey.

"Stop." She's almost camouflaged into the room but the sound of bone scraping on metal has given her away.

You're past the limitations of your patience

"You are my Player," you gently remind her, "but you," your fingers thread easily through her bloodied hair, "WILL," your fist clenches, "NOT," and you pull her up, "STOP ME."  
Her fingers carve into your face, popping an eye and darkening your world, and you drop her only to hear a ticket rip.

"RUN! "

You wipe the black mess from your face in an afterthought,

"Epsilon, take him!"  
_Hugo is escaping._

"ENTIRE CHAIN! PHOTOGRAPHIC BLUR!"

You've been reduced to kneeling - when had she gotten Omega? - but she's still a soggy mess when she pries the bat free of your hands.  
"I warned you batter..."

The bat went up.

"I...I... warned-"

And down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really need a beta.


	4. Fallacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaguely inspired by the [Too Damn Slow](http://jerkin-off.dreamwidth.org/805.html?thread=301349#cmt301349%22%22) prompt on the kink meme.

"...They almost got you this time, Batter, and we're running low on meat and tickets."  
"I'm fine."  
"You'd be better if you had help."  
"I have Alpha"  
"Still."  
"Do Not concern yourself."  
"I just want to help you figh-"  
"Then _guide ___me as is your calling."

There's a special kind of darkness that settles over his features when you have this conversation, but like so many other times you blow it off because excuse _the fuck out of him_ , but two bats smite faster than one, _and you are anything but useless in a fight_. 

"You have no business fighting the specters head-on."  
"Oh, yeah?"  
"Yes. You would just hurt yourself trying if they didn't get to you first."  
"Oh, _yeah_?"  
" _Yes_. Besides, you're too _weak_ to handle a bat effectively in battle."  


Bitch say what.  


" _Oh, Yeah?_ "  
" _Yes, Player_!"  


Fuck it.  


"Good game!," you shout, slapping that ass hard enough to make his ears ring, and snatching polished timber clear out of his massive hands. You make it, maybe, four feet before a clump of Magnolias rear their ugly head, and with a smile you make them kiss existence goodbye. A stray January tries to ambush you on your return, but you slam a home-run and gather up the fallen credits, flinging the bat back towards your puppet with a smirk. 

"You were saying?" 


	5. Time for Colds and Overcoats (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part of a fill for the Sweater Weather request on kink meme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure when the next segment for this will get posted, since I can only find about a eighth of the notebook it's in.

Your feet are cold.

The first thought to rise through the fog of your mind is how bitterly chilled your toes and feet are, but the stiffness and cramping in your legs is soon to follow, and with it comes the staticy tingle in your arms.  
You must've kicked the duvet off in your sleep, again.  
But the bed's so hard, _too_ hard, and the nights aren't this cold in summer.

It takes more than a moment to adjust to the blinding light on snowy whites and cloudy yellows, and in your cringing and huddling you accept that this is not your bed or your room, and by Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

You choke on the scream - or maybe the thick reek of molten plastic - and it doesn't stop till you've had two puffs and the inhaler's safely back in your hoodies' pocket. You always thought madness was a slow steep not a snap of the fingers, but here you are.

The tides ebb and flow and the dams burst and rebuild and you don't make a single peep. The tears blind you, but you stay silent and patch your head as it shatters. You want your mom. Your blankets and pillow. You break and repair. You want to go home. To be in familiar scenery. To not be sitting on milk white metal surrounded by lapping plastic waves. But you _are_ here, wherever here is and however you got here.

Hours pass and your teeth are chattering when you see the approaching figure on the horizon.

You want to be mad, when it clicks, because insanity is the better option.

He is the Batter, and you his Player.  
You bite your fingers when he tilts the cap up and red glows down on you; weighing, judging, and finding you wanting. Or staring at the lace on your white thigh-highs. Or staring a touch higher than that, if the blush is anything to go by. The hoodie doesn't cover nearly enough when you tug it into place and he turns his head away when the camisole beneath pulls low. You could die.  
Of shame.  
Of shock.  
Of more shame.  
And you kiss your chances at marriage goodbye.

Well.

Fuck it.  
Fuck the way your knees knock and you tremble when you move to stand, and fuck the asshat with the bat turned away from you, and fuck this video game bullshit nonsense because it's fucking _on_ , and you forgot to set the telly to record the season premiers tonight, and the minute you get home you are going to fucking _something_ , _so fucking hard_ , you'll never fucking-  
You sneeze.  


Fuck it's cold.

You're huffing thick clouds while the Batter seems impervious to the freezer-like conditions of this shithole, and it may just be your imagination, but the chattering from your teeth sounds like it's getting violent and you doubt there's anyone qualified to fix chips here.

Each step makes a dull thud as you push past the the guy with _four fucking eyes_ and trudge towards what you can only hope is a real building with a quality heating system.

It is not.  
Your brain is audibly cracking when the creepy cat talks - though how he speaks so crisp and clean through those monstrous sharp and pointies is beyond you - and you bite out commands, barely avoiding your tongue as you hurry through the tutorial.

The burning plastic stench, miraculously, hasn't pervaded the strangely open building and you cherish the mildly musty scent replacing it as well as the soothing warmth of just-above-convenience-store-refrigeration levels. The goose flesh is still prominent, but the roseate smudges on your ears and nose and across your cheeks has dimmed, and the ache in your bones has dulled.

Your kingdom for some pants.

To be fair, you'd been dressed a bit warmly for the heat of high summer back home, especially in the sleeveless knit number you'd thrown on after work. Though, had you known your computer would kidnap you to the icebox from hell, you would've maybe found something more winter friendly before sitting down to play.


End file.
